The Absolute Madness of Christmas Shopping
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: Takes place around season 4. Sherlock is dragged along Christmas shopping by a reluctant John; they end up standing in line for hours for a special infant mobile for baby Rosie's first Christmas. An argument ensues about Sherlock not giving anyone Christmas presents, which is a view he stands behind until he sees the present Molly's bought for him among her shop purchases.


_**Soli Deo gloria**_

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Sherlock Holmes. This is a belated Christmas present for a friend of mine. Now mind, some of the ideas I introduce here might be entirely contradicted in the New Year's special. But let's go ahead and do it anyways!**

While looking down on the rest of the world as common rabble who passed through life blindly and routinely, never able to grasp the full concept or complexity of a moment, or even just obvious clues that stuck out like sore thumbs to him, never more had Sherlock felt as irritated with the masses of the human race than at this moment: he was standing in line to get some special-released, stupid children's toy in a department store two days before Christmas, with John Watson with him as one of the common rabble.

Sherlock sighed, bouncing on his feet. This was stupid; he could barely stand still in this huge line; really, all the time he stood wasting here twiddling his thumbs while he had hours of work! People were cutting, like they had no concept of rules and regulations; really, they should get themselves into the back of the line so he didn't have to look ahead at them. Some people couldn't even listen to the shop worker's call of, "Please, stay in single file! We're moving as quickly as possible, please be patient, single file, please!"

"Single file." Sherlock scoffed. "There's a gaggle of five people abreast sixteen people ahead of us, all of who are too thick and dense in the head to even comprehend what _arduous_ task they're being asked to perform."

John Watson turned around with a grim face. He wore a large coat that now felt suffocating, as his arms were laden heavily with wrapped packages and large gift bags it'd taken almost an entire day to amass. He was sweating and hot and trying to not be annoyed. "People can hear you, you know."

"The gaggle can't. Even if I shouted it at them, I'm sure none of them would even stick a finger in their ears to correct their hearing problems."

John sighed. "It's just a few more minutes. Then we're out of this store, I swear."

"I recall you saying something along those same lines two hours and seven minutes ago." Sherlock looked away from John and saw all these people milling about. The counters and racks in this store had been completely hidden by the crowds of thickly-clothed Londoners, all running about and pushing and shoving with their gloved hands; packages rushed by faster than the mailing system; the harried shop employees moved as fast as humanly possible in wrapping up expensive, last-minute presents in brightly colored Christmas boxes, papers, ribbons, and bows. Overhead, a cheerful American singer sang some Christmas song about snow that Sherlock wished he could permanently delete from his brain. It was loud, and people, arguing and cumbersome, spilled their purchases, and met up with old friends and laughed as they traded news—and that _stupid_ song kept spilling out of the speaker. Sherlock turned back with a considerable grimace.

"I mean it this time, if that's any comfort," John said with a shrug.

"Oh, _thank you_. Consider me completely and utterly reassured. I'm entirely sure you mean that." Sherlock's dry tone didn't help John's own short temper.

"You didn't have to come Christmas shopping with me," John said, now a little irritable himself.

"I believe I did. I had a great many things I wanted to do in investigating the contradicting case of the mysterious Moriarty, but then I found you on my doorstep this morning with some insistence that I go Christmas shopping with you. And no matter how many times you deny it, I _know_ Mrs. Hudson put you up to this."

John shrugged again, like he didn't want to admit that truth because of all the times he'd denied it. "She _does_ want you to get out, and she thinks us the best of friends, so. . ."

"Mrs. Hudson; ha, that woman, with her hopes and down-to-earth-ness. It's charming." Sherlock, tall as he was, craned his neck even further toward the front of the line. "Oh, look, our idle chatter has elapsed time enough for a whole two people to move out of line and another four to move illegally back in. What say we just march up to the front of the line and demand first access because it's a police matter?"

John looked alarmed by this unfiltered, but very much meant thought. "Because it's not a police matter."

"But they don't know that."

"But it's not and it's wrong to say so. I'm not lying my way through this line."

"Oh, so you'd rather slowly decay into a heavily-laden corpse in a line for an infant mobile?"

John took offense at the tone with which Sherlock sneered "infant mobile." "This _infant mobile_ is the best-rated mobile on the market. It's not available anywhere online, and Mary has her heart set on it for Rosie. This is the only store in London—no, the only store in _England_ that carries it. It'll be sold out by the end of the day, and I intend to have one before that end of the day," John said firmly.

"Rosie won't care."

"I know Rosie won't care. She's only two months old. _Of course_ she won't care."

"Then why bother? She's a baby whose only thoughts are of sleeping, eating, and Mummy. There is no logical point to go to such vast lengths of time and expense for something that you could easily get cheaper."

John tried to calm his nerves. Sherlock just had the nasty habit, ever since they'd met, of pressing all of his buttons at once without any regard for his feelings. "It's Rosie's first Christmas, _and_ she's our first child. Mary and I want nothing more than the best for our daughter. Now, is _that_ such a bad thing?"

"It doesn't make any logical sense." Sherlock shrugged. "But, do whatever you want, John. I don't care."

John, of course, didn't feel relieved. He felt like a bird whose feathers were roughly ruffled by a thoughtless little boy. "It's Rosie's first Christmas, and I want it to be the best for her."

Sherlock, however, wasn't done. "Oh yes, I'm sure she'll appreciate the organic teething rings and monogrammed baby blankets. I'm sure she'll notice the excellent source of nutrients in that teddy bear's arm as she gnaws on it," Sherlock said, regarding all the packages making John's arms ache. A thoughtful friend would've taken up some of the packages from John, to relieve him their weight, but for all of Sherlock's thoughts, he didn't think of this.

"Do you want to get out of line and go get a drink or something? Or maybe a nice bang on the head will calm you down," John muttered hastily under his breath.

"Why are you acting like I'm the insane one here? Seriously, what is with this colony of toys you've purchased? Does one single tiny human being really need _that_ many toys?"

"You have as many toys," John murmured to himself, mostly to relieve his anger. "They're from Santa. Santa brings lots of toys at Christmas."

Sherlock looked at John like he'd suddenly turned into a rooster. "Santa? Really? Santa Claus? You're saying that this mythical elf is bringing your two-month-old daughter presents? Even if he was real and not you pretending to be him, on what pretense? That she's a good little girl? She can't do any good, she can't do _anything_ —she's an infant!"

"It's a Christmas tradition—hey!" Sherlock couldn't look at John with any form of seriousness anyway; he couldn't stand to think that this reasonably smart doctor truly believed that he could bring small Rosie up with the belief that Father Christmas was real. John didn't like Sherlock not looking him in the eye. "It's a tradition! It's something constant and there and it's going to be a nice, normal Christmas, for all of us! And _you_ need to stop acting like Scrooge and get with it!"

Sherlock pocketed his hands and scoffed. _"Get with it—"_

"Yes! Buy Christmas presents! It's one of the most basic Christmas traditions, and you don't do it!"

"If people really wanted an item, they'd buy it themselves. There's so much confusion over Christmas shopping; all the returns, all the faked politeness when someone receives something they don't really want. It's because people see but don't observe people and what they want, of course, but still; it's a common happening, all these mistakes with bad Christmas presents. So it's a tradition that should die down to save everyone time, confusion, money, and," he sneered at the pandemonium of London at Christmas all around him, _"this."_

"It's funny that you're saying that when you are the only person I know who could look at a person once and know _exactly_ what to get them for Christmas. You could make so many people so happy on Christmas morning, if you only _tried_."

Sherlock ignored John, out of habit. His eyes strayed away across the department store. John sighed, berating himself for trying on a lost cause again, and shuffled forward a whole foot and a half.

"Sherlock!" The sound of the cry drew Sherlock's eyes to her position quicker than her legs could bring her to them. Molly, hair pulled back and coat buttoned up, resembled John—what, with all the bags stringing her arms like wet laundry on a line. "John! What are you doing here?" She was in a cheerful mood. The heat she exerted from running showed up as brightness in her cheeks. A certain twinkle of good humor and high spirits gleamed in her eyes.

"Buying Christmas presents." John lifted up his arms all he could—a full five inches—and said, jerking a shoulder to the jerk at his shoulder, "Well, _I_ am at least."

"Oh, right! It's Rosie's first Christmas! Are you in line for something? The shop closes in twenty minutes, you know," Molly said worriedly.

John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock cut him off, "Don't worry about it, Molly. John's got everything timed perfectly. What are you doing here?"

By _far_ , this was one of the stupidest questions John Watson had _ever_ heard Sherlock Holmes ask. It was pretty evident she was Christmas shopping, from the bags in her hands. John gave Sherlock a curiously confused sort of look while Molly raised her own arms and said, "I'm doing a little Christmas shopping of my own."

Neither of the two shoppers noticed what Sherlock was noticing— _actually_ noticing this time—a nametag peeking out of one of her bags; in cursive handwriting, in a pretty green marker, was: _Merry Christmas, Sherlock ~ Molly xxx._

She'd gone and done it again. Oh, Molly.

"Well, sounds fabulous. Be seeing you at Mrs. Hudson's party, good day, Molly," Sherlock said hastily. Her smile faded as he grabbed one of John's arms and pulled him past the single-file and gaggle-filled line of people to the front of it.

"Bye, Sherlock," she said a little sadly, waving her hand after him.

"Sherlock, what was that? You idiot! What is wrong with you!? You left poor Molly back there, dropping her like she wasn't worth a single thought in your _stupid_ head!" John said, resisting Sherlock. Then again, Sherlock was stronger, and had a greater motivation.

"Use your war injury as evidence for your tragic wartime backstory to the employees," Sherlock said calmly. "You'll get the mobile for the baby you never thought you could have because you thought you were going to die in Afghanistan. Then we have nineteen minutes for me to pick out Christmas presents for those attending Mrs. Hudson's party. I can do it in sixteen. We go through the checkout line with the same way you'll get this mobile, and then we'll be gone by the time this department store closes at exactly nine PM."

John's mind was like Sherlock had opened a window and let the wind spray all the organized papers full of thoughts all over the room. "Wait, what?"

"Do you think Molly would smell better in a floral or sea scented perfume? Or lipstick, she seems to wear a lot of lipstick. Not a _lot_ of lipstick, but a lot of times a little bit of lipstick—you know what, stay here," for they'd reached the front of the line, to the chagrin of the people at the head of it, "and I'll be at the makeup counter. Find me. Be quick about it."

John blinked after his friend's big, sweeping coat. He finally realized what was happening: Sherlock saw Molly's presents and had a change of heart about getting everyone presents. John saw past Sherlock's rudeness and actually smiled to himself. He hefted his packages closer to him, gathering strength, and hurried to tell his story so he could rejoin his friend. He wouldn't want to miss out on Sherlock Holmes picking out Christmas presents for the world.

 **Thanks for reading! Review?**


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